This is a dystopian world where adult women must suppress all sexual desires. If they fail, they move through the five Stages of being a slut. Stage 5 sluts permanently become society's Breeders and Consorts. Men are not held to any standards.
All characters are adults well over 18, and I try to make this clear through the details. Fantasy only. Elements of this story are unacceptable in real life.
This chapter includes: sexism, non-consent, humiliation, degrading language, restraints, forced oral, and forced orgasm.
***
I barricaded my bedroom door when I heard my housemate, Kelly, open up the front door for the police. I crouched in the corner of my room, shaking.
I've been considered a Stage 1 slut since I was in college. One day, a roommate found "illicit material" under my bed—a porn magazine that my vengeful ex, Drew, had stashed there when we broke up. The roommate reported me, and I was sent to the police. They fitted me with a permanent tracking bracelet. If I ever got in any kind of trouble, they said, they wouldn't hesitate to escalate me to Stage 2. I've been "Tracked" ever since.
At the time, I was heartbroken. Once you're Stage 1, you can never go back to Stage 0. Some of my friends used to joke that I might as well go all the way to Stages 2, 3, or 4, because in those stages, you can redeem yourself and go back to Stage 1. But you can never go back to Stage 0, and I intended to stay right where I was.
Since then, I've always been on my best behavior—no illegal items like sex toys, no porn (also illegal), not even dating—but now I'm kicking myself for getting into a petty fight with Kelly over the dishes in the kitchen sink. She controls our Internet subscription, and she found a porn site in our browser history. Afraid of getting reported herself, she needed someone else to blame, and she chose me. After all, I'm the one who's Stage 1.
So now the cops were coming.
"Open up!" the man bellowed, banging on my door.
"Geezuz, the little bitch is hiding," another man commented.
"They all do that," the first voice explained. "We have a warrant for investigation of Violet Hastings!"
When they finally forced my door open, I shrieked. They lumbered in, leaving the door hanging wide open. There was a short, slim officer with shiny black hair, followed by a stout, rotund, pale officer with sandy hair and circular glasses, who dropped a black duffel bag in the doorway. Both officers were adorned with shiny pairs of handcuffs on their belts. The one with black hair had an extra badge, making me wonder if he had a higher rank.
"Please," I begged, "please, it wasn't me. Check my computer. I didn't look at anything."
The black-haired officer snickered. "I'll be the judge of that. You're already Stage 1. Now be a good girl and come over here, nice and quietly—"
"No! Please, no!"
"Oh, so you're gonna interrupt? Chuck, get her onto the bed."
"Sure thing, Officer Eric." The sandy-haired officer approached.
I whimpered as he towered over me.
"Such a pretty little thing," he whistled. "I can hardly believe she's a Stage 1, maybe Stage 2. Too pretty to be a slut. Now come on up."
I shook my head violently, but he wrenched my arm up and pulled me onto the bed. He held my arms down as Eric grabbed my feet, despite my kicking. They lay me sprawled out on the bed. Eric was stoic, but Chuck looked ravenous, a tiny pool of saliva forming on the side of his lip. I thrashed helplessly, but their grips were iron on my wrists and ankles.
"Please! Please no! Let me go!"
"Tie 'er up," Eric scoffed.
"No! No please no!"
Chuck flashed a toothy grin. "Oh yes hon, yes. Ohhh, yes." He was kneeling now, his face close to mine, as he fastened metal handcuffs to my wrists, securing them to the bedframe. I yanked on them, panting, desperate, but the metal only dug into my skin.
Amidst my panic about Chuck, I realized Eric had done the same thing to my ankles. I was spread-eagle on the bed, unable to close my legs or cover myself in any way.
"This is what sluts like you get," Chuck giggled.
"No! Please! Please let me go!" I whined.
"Are you a good girl?" Chuck mocked, stroking my face gently with his callused thumb.
"Yes, please, I'm not a slut. I'm only a Stage 1 because—"
"Shut up," Eric demanded. He stormed over and slapped my face, and I winced as it stung. "I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses. We're conducting a test to find out if you are a Stage 2 slut. The only thing I want to hear from your dirty little mouth is 'yes, sir.' Understand?"
"Yes, sir," I whined.
"Good. And watch your tone." He pulled a document from his jacket and shoved it in my face. "You are legally obligated to answer my question truthfully and completely. Are you or are you not Violet Hastings?"
I squinted, trying to read the paper. When I was young, my mother had taught me always to look for two things on an arrest warrant: the correct name, and an official seal. With those two things, the police can do anything they want to a Stage 1 or above. Without those things, they could be fired. But I'd heard of fake seals, or officers recycling arrest warrants with someone else's name. I sighed when I saw my name.
"Well?" Eric demanded. "Don't make me wait."
"Yes, sir," I whispered. I had found the seal, official and correct. I could even see the watermark. This was real.
Silence hung in the air as Eric walked over to the black bag they'd dropped in my doorframe as they entered. He dragged it over so it was next to my bed and began rifling through it.
Any illicit material—porn, sex toys, suspected orgasm—can get a Stage 0 woman pushed to Stage 1. To go from Stage 1 to Stage 2, however, the instance must be more egregious. One instance of porn in my browser history would be not enough to get me to Stage 2. They would have to find multiple instances of porn viewing, or porn in addition to a sex toy.
But there is one thing that could automatically push me from Stage 1 to Stage 2: a documented orgasm.
Chuck whistled, touching my face again. "The things I'd like to do to you," he murmured.
My eyes widened when I saw the pair of scissors in Eric's hand. "No, no, no, please, no."
His eyes narrowed, and he grabbed my jaw, pulling himself down so that his face was only inches from mine. "Slut, what did I tell you?" he growled.
With my jaw clamped between his fingers, I felt my cheeks getting red. I whimpered, gazing into his cold eyes. I flinched when I felt his breath on my face, hot and angry.
"Answer me, unless you want to see these"—he held up the scissors—"marking up your pretty little body."
